Minutes passed. Then more.
Finally, a nose appeared from behind the couch. Then her eyes—wide, uncertain, searching.
“It’s okay,” I murmured. “You don’t have to be brave all at once.”
That became our rhythm. On the hard days, I didn’t try to fix her. I just stayed.
Somewhere along the way, I realized something uncomfortable: I wasn’t just teaching Willow how to trust again. She was teaching me patience in a way nothing else ever had. In my job, everything is urgency—sirens, calls, decisions made in seconds. You act, or something suffers.
But Willow? Willow didn’t need speed. She needed consistency. Quiet. Time.
She needed me to slow down.
Weeks turned into months. The seasons shifted without asking permission. The case file from that night didn’t stay open long—no witnesses, no leads. Whoever left her out there vanished back into the world without consequence.
That used to bother me more.
I used to lie awake thinking about it—about anger, about justice, about how someone could do something like that and just… walk away.
